George mans up and asks himself the harsh, unavoidable question:
How. Long. Until?
How terrible will it be if the last of their memories are of their damaged souls, of their broken bond?
Theirs is a bond that could reanneal with the magic of love.
No matter how frayed, how damaged...
He could stitch it back.
It's never too late, never too damaged.
He knows how to reach into his soul...
Slowly, gently, like soft feather falling down in still air.
It's night. George watches from a distance as Fred walks up the stairs, heading to their bedroom. He is going to take a quick shower, pull on some clothes, and then leave for his girlfriend's.
He has seen her. Fred brought her to the Burrow a week ago.
She's pretty. A pretty brunette who has chopped her beautiful long locks to shoulder length and dyed her hair ginger.
She is lively, a little playful, and George - unlike their mum - was only amused and glad to play along with her light-hearted flirting. She had gazed at him in wonder, head tilted to a side, and declared that she'd bring bigamy to effect if that was the last thing she did. Their mum had choked on her pumpkin juice and stared at her, scandalized. George had only laughed.
Fred had stared straight at him, meeting his eyes after a long gap of avoiding them.
And George could interpret those eyes. He answered the question that burned through their depths.
His answer was:
I don't hate her, Fred.
I hate you.
Then he realized the hollowness of the statement. Because the truer one is:
I wish I could hate you.
But ours is a bond that feeds off on each other's happiness, isn't it, George?
I deviated from our bond...
You deviated from your right mind, Fred.
That doesn't account for jealousy.
George walks up the stairs, slowly, steadily, gripping the railing tightly, for his legs feel too weak.
Their parents have retired to bed early. None of their siblings are here. The only ones awake are him and his other half.
He pushes open the door to their bedroom. It wasn't locked. Because George would steer clear of the place when Fred is in there. That was yet another new, unvoiced norm that they had made.
Until now. There are no steady norms for them, he supposes.
He walks quietly to the bathroom. The light is on, the shower is running, the clear curtain is fogged; he can see his blurred form. There is his flaming red hair, his head thrown back, his hands moving across his hair. His eyes might be closed against the water, his vision might be red against the light, his fingers might be running through the soaked locks...
He might not even be aware of the sounds of George's slow footsteps.
The tremors now shake through him. His throat has closed up, his breaths choke in it.
His fingers reach the curtain, and he tugs it aside.
He can see how his breaths have stopped, how his eyes have widened; it's shock, before his eyes go dark quicker than magic.
George steps in, and starts to tug his clothes off.
Fred has stilled completely, the water pouring over him, as he stares at him in a sort of disconnected daze.
He stands, unmoving, as George steps into his personal space.
Naked.
Only his chest is moving rapidly, his heart is quivering frantically, his breaths are coming in short, shallow puffs...
He closes his eyes.
He had it all wrong. He always has it all wrong, doesn't he?
He thought that it'd be rough, unforgiving, ugly...
George takes his lips softly between his.
A moan slips past Fred's lips instantly; his heart can't take this. It can't.
Yet, in a flash, he lets his heart risk the intense overload.
Nerves firing rapidly..
A dull roar...
Fred brings his hands up to cup his sweet face, and deepens the kiss. It feels strangely memorable, as if they've kissed a thousand times before.
"I could stitch it back," George whispers as their lips part softly. A strangled, tortured sound escapes Fred as he crashes their lips together again.
The sound of water pouring drowns out the quick, laboured breathing. "Our bond," George gasps as they part for air. Fred seals their lips together again. It turns a little rough, a little deep...
"It's never too late for us, Fred, is it- ah," George lets Fred search deep within his mouth, lets his hands tangle tightly in his soaked hair, lets him push him to the wall and kiss him against it, lets him press his body to his, bracing them both from the vertigo that seizes them...
"It's never too damaged.. We could always stitch it back.."
Fred answers in more kisses; soft, deep, rough, gentle. He brings his lips against his jaw, leaving such soft kisses that George feels his heart ache...
George opens his eyes and stares at the water that comes pouring from above. His lips part in a choked breath as Fred leaves little nips along his neck..
Slowly, gently, like soft feather falling down in still air...
George brings his hands across his shoulders, trails them softly down his back, his waist..
When Fred lays his twin on his bed, the two of them soaking the dry sheets with their wet bodies, it's with delicate care.
His little twin, his soul mate.
His whole life has been spent living for him, the one who added meaning to his life ...
When he enters him, after a long time of slowly breaching him with his fingers, it's with him lying under him, facing him. Fred pulls his legs to his shoulders, and descends down on him, gently folding him in half. George closes his eyes, presses his head sideways to the pillow, and lets the tears flow...
"I love you, George.."
George's breath hitches in a half sob, but he has barely heard the whispered words as Fred reaches deep within him in slow, insistent thrusts.
Slowly, gently, like a dance to be remembered...
Fred closes his lips over his; their lips tremble over each other in shuddered breaths..
Fred cries softly with him, even as he comes deep inside him.
And he loves Fred back.
He loves him with the same intensity as that of the raw repugnance that coursed through him.